If it weren’t for spam, I’d have no comments at all.

It’s funny to check into my dashboard and read the totally randam spams that have gone into limbo.

Number one, whoever sends these things doesn’t read any content on the site because they keep telling my what helpful information I’ve posted. Which kinda cracks me up. I’m just striving for something in the enjoyable and sometimes witty range.

Number two, I can never tell what they’re selling or what the motive is to junk up  my mailbox with their innocuous solicitations. If you’re going to bother me, get to the point.

Number three, what is  the motivation for sending out these random messages? The blog filters ensnare them before they can cause any harm or get their content out into cyberspace, so why go through all the hassle?

Maybe I have too much time on my hands  that I’m even pondering this. Maybe I’m avoiding the Bix  rewrite and Nano obligations. Maybe I should get back to work

A confrontation scene from my YA novel, SON OF A (HIRED) GUN

THUMP. BJ throws a UFC shoulder block at me.

I skate across the linoleum, ducking and diving to avoid taking anyone down with me. And make no mistake, I am going down.

“Your brother thinks he can replace me with that twig?” BJ’s disgust barrels through the hall silencing all chatter.

I have a finite moment to avoid ridicule. In one fluid motion, I pop up as soon as I hit the floor. I mastered the art of falling a long time ago. Plus, there’s something to be said about humiliation avoidance.

And it works. Hallway snickers halt in stunned amazement as they witness my agile dexterity.

I glare at BJ once I’m upright. “No funeral, no foul. Gibbs, 1, Darwin, 2.5.”

BJ looks at me like I’ve sprouted wings. “What’s wrong mental loop? Hit your head on the way down?” He looks around the still hall as if he’s waiting for applause or laughter, but apparently someone forgot his theater flash cards.

“That’s a move I like to call the Drop and Pop.” I stretch my arms out, clearing the space around me. Students oblige, if only to witness my trick again. “Hell, I could even teach you.”  Brave boy that I pretend to be and audience in my hand, I make a show of examining BJ’s thick biceps. Of course, I’m not crazy enough to touch him. I simply mime the exaggerated enormity of said biceps. “Or maybe I can’t. I don’t think you have the lightening quick reflexes for such an advanced move. However, if you want to learn the dumb lunk log roll, I think we can work something out.” The thing about verbal sparring with the inadequately prepared, is that by the time they realize they’ve been insulted, you’re gone.

Unless someone intervenes before you can make your getaway.

BIX is done! So I guess I made my RWO goal!

The edited version is out to a few beta readers now and this week I will begin my first round of queries.

After finishing it, I’ve decided to go with a title of

Son of a (Hired) Gun

because being the son of an assassin comes into play throughout the novel.

And even though it’s advise to not write a second book in a series until you’ve sold the first book, I’ve begun the second one, Son of a (Missing) Gun.

Love this comic!  I wonder if I can get it on a tee-shirt of a coffee mug for contest prizes when I publish Bix? How fitting would that be?  Well, until you read it, you won’t know, but trust me, it not only fits, it’s perfect!

ROW 80 Check-in: Still sorta on schedule. I’ve been trying to get my pages in and am to the last two chapters of Bix–and one of them is mostly done. I don’t know if it’s because I know it’s the end that I’m having trouble finding the right words. Because then I have to kind of say goodbye–even though I have the first chapter or so written of the next one–it’s still kind of hard to get to THE END.

As for Auntie B’s Blog contest–I won! And I’m not embarrassed to say I squealed. It was such a thrill to have Bix appreciated by his peer group. Thanks so much to Brenda Drake and her girls. It was an amazing experience.

Still having productive days and staying pretty close to target goals.

I must say, the WIP is coming through my self-imposed hurdle pretty well.

When I began Bix, I decided there should be a big paintball event-first known as the Harvest Jamboree, now known as the Harvest Challenge.

I built it up so much in the first part of the book without really having a plan as to what it was. Just thinking, I’ll worry about it when I get there.

Guess what? I’m there.

Agh! Head banging ensues.

And what a challenge it’s been. Hopefully readers will enjoy the paintball battle/military-grade obstacle course that I’ve created.

Fingers crossed with me.

So, Brenda Drake’s running this awesome contest on her blog where you post your logline and the first 25o words–so here’s mine. Thanks to Brenda and her awesome girls for doing this contest.

Title:  SON OF A (HIRED) GUN

Genre: YA contemp

LOGLINE:
An assassin’s son goes into witness protection and learns that his secret may not be the biggest one in town.

BLURB:

“Simon,” Mom calls down the hall to me. “If you make us any later I’ll–.” You’d think we were having lunch with someone more important than her latest boyfriend. But seeing as she’s reached the critical get-to-know-my-son juncture in this relationship, she’s a little on edge or ready to jump off one.

“I’m ready.” I head her off before she can get even more creative and vindictive. Yes, in our home, they sometimes go hand in hand.

From my desk, I glance outside. Across the street, MAX—Portland’s light rail system–is pulling out of the station. I have about a twenty minute window before the next one arrives.

I take out my phone and tweet. Lunch at Melting Pot with Omar. Rather stay home than break bread (and dip it) with Mom’s florist/terrorist boyfriend.

Jury’s still out whether Omar is actually a terrorist but it does make good blogging and tweeting. It’s not like anyone takes me seriously anyway. That’s kind of the problem when you’re sixteen and look like you’re twelve. Which is why my cyber life is so important, I’m judged by my words not by looks.

“Simon,” Mom’s yell borders on hysteria. Sounds like she got the tweet. “You’ve got to stop calling him a terrorist.”

I walk to the bathroom doorway and duck under a lingering mist cloud of hairspray. I hold my breath as I pass. Don’t want to die of cancer before I get my first kiss. “I can’t help it if I think he’s a terrorist.”

Staying on track for the most part. Been writing an average of 2-3 pages a day. And have written my logline–see next post–and a blurb.

Which Hogwarts house will you be sorted into?

Having a couple extra days off was a good thing. Got ten new pages out of it and am chugging to the end.

a snippet of what I wrote:

Jon gives us a squirt of hand sanitizer as if that’s going to make up for the whole camera snafu. “Sorry, guys.”
“How’d you miss that one?” I can’t believe I peed on-camera. “Of all the ones to miss, why this one?”
Tack has the decency to be laughing with his back to us, but he’s shaking from head to toe. “I’ll—check the—the trapdoor.” He sputters between laughter.
“I don’t know. I guess I just had to go so bad, I didn’t really check it out as well as I should have.”
“That’s an understatement.”

Just for the record, I’m #98